Laugh, smile, snigger, snicker, snort and giggle with Gerry Burke's humorous short stories! ➱ Author Spotlight with Guest Post & Giveaway
Laugh, smile, snigger, snicker, snort and giggle with Gerry Burke's humorous short stories!
Dogmatic:
Featuring Dusty Rhodes, the K9 Kid & the Doberman Who Didn't Like Doughnuts
by Gerry Burke
Genre: Humorous Short Stories
Every
morning I take my constitutional along the beach path in the suburb
where I live. The early risers are already there with their dogs,
every conceivable breed.
All
of the canines have a story to tell, so I thought I might like to
speak out on their behalf. You will be surprised with the extent and
nature of their adventures. In fact, these humorous dog tales are
unbelievable.
We
already laud our heroes in the form of Lassie, Rin Tin Tin, and
Snoopy. I hope these captivating stories will now shine a light on
the likes of Baloo, Atticus, and William, the Wet Nose Wonder. In the
meantime, give your dog a bone.
Amazon * Apple * B&N * Kobo * iUniverse * Bookbub * Goodreads
Citizen Vain:
Stories From Down Under and All Over
by Gerry Burke
Genre: Humorous Short Stories
Stories from Down Under and all over! Humility is not a common virtue among the rich and famous. The protagonists in these narratives come from all parts of the globe, and have experienced the dizzy heights of fame and fortune. These are people who have let vanity overcome wisdom. Tall poppies need to be cut down to size, and plotting their downfall has been my pleasure.
“The Bonfire of the Vanities was hot. These yarns are hotter.” Lucifer Beelzebub
Amazon * Apple * B&N * Kobo * iUniverse * Bookbub * Goodreads
My Book of Revelations:
Stories that Burst the Bubble of Believability
by Gerry Burke
Genre: Humorous Short Stories
History,
heroes, horror, and Hollywood! Every story with a sting in the tail.
Lady Godiva; The Charge of the Light Brigade; The Borgias; and Tales
from the Old West: stories that never happened, but should have. Plus
the heroes of today; crime-fighters, patriots, and protagonists of
purpose. No wonder the villains never win. Of course, you can’t
blame them for trying.
Laugh,
smile, snigger, snicker, snort and giggle! The author’s revelations
will be hard to believe, and harder to forget. There’s always a
bubble to burst.
Amazon * Apple * B&N * Kobo * iUniverse * Bookbub * Goodreads
A SMALL TOWN
Dave Rhodes was the
kind of husband who gave his wife a vacuum cleaner for her birthday. The kids
didn’t do surprises and knew what they wanted. Gifts could be found scattered
all over the house, including game devices, Barbie dolls, and enough anti-alien
laser guns to repel Darth Vadar and a million Stormtroopers. After a
pre-Christmas think-tank meeting, the three children decided they deserved a
dog. Realising their father might want to resist the opportunity to expand the
family in this way, the boys charged Chloe, five, with the job of bringing him
around to their way of thinking. Another mouth to feed might stretch the
budget, but the youngsters would be prepared to give up their portions of
spinach and other green edibles if it would help.
It has to be said that Chloe was the Mata
Hari of five-year-olds. Using all her feminine charms, she possessed the
ability to turn her father into a compliant servant within minutes of locking
her arms around his neck. With the commitment confirmed, the eldest son, Rory,
stepped in to declare that he had prize-picked a potential candidate for the
yet-to-be-purchased kennel. The father of his best mate at school, a grazier,
owned a spread the envy of most folks in the area. The litter of pups would be
there for the taking, and it would cost Dave nothing. Nevertheless, he did
question the need for this breed.
“A sheepdog! I know we live on a farm, but
we only have one sheep. Are you sure?”
Shawn may have been a single entity but he
was no ordinary sheep. He possessed half a brain and a dynamic personality, and
interacted well with the children. Mrs Rhodes, less keen, considered buying her
husband a lawn mower for Christmas. In this way, they might get to enjoy roast
lamb instead of the usual boring ham.
The family lived on a rural property, but
don’t paint Dave as a farmer. The fellow sold farm machinery. His wife, Annie,
supplemented their income with her various cottage industries, which included
door sales of eggs (chicken and duck), fruit, and feather-down quilts.
Did she think the backyard would become
more chaotic with ducks, chooks, a sheep, and now a dog? Yes, she did, but
young Chloe could be persuasive.
The puppy arrived in a basket with a bow
tied around his neck, with the sound of departing sleigh bells in the distance.
Rory took charge and introduced the little fella to every member of the family.
The young girl provided similar introductions to each of her dolls. Dusty
licked them all and then retreated to the fireplace, where he discovered a
large bone wrapped in Christmas tinsel. The children believed it would be best
to initiate the tyke into the joys of the yuletide season, so he might enjoy it
as much as they did.
Over the ensuing months, the pup kept close
to his three protectors as he felt vulnerable outside, at the mercy of loud and
inconsiderate farm animals. Protecting one’s patch is quite the thing with
creatures, often wary of any new arrival. Of course, adventures could be
encountered beyond the perimeter of the property, but all in good time.
The puppy didn’t have a lot to do with Mr
and Mrs Rhodes, although he must have wondered why the woman continually
followed him with a green plastic bag. This would all change when he became
older and wiser. Two years down the track and Annie wouldn’t go to town without
her faithful companion by her side. On these occasions, the dog would get to
meet the townspeople, and they all loved him.
On her shopping excursions, the country
housewife couldn’t take the pet into the supermarket, so she tied him up on the
footpath. The shopkeeper next door didn’t like this much because he thought the
dishlicker deterred customers, so he always untied the barking beast. The
liberated animal then proceeded to freewheel down High Street on a voyage of
discovery, which included the butcher shop, the bakery, and Fat Al’s burger
joint.
In this way, new friends would be made,
some of them possessing a welcoming nature and a generosity of spirit. Often, a
slice of salami would come sailing out of the window of Mother Petrocelli’s
Deli just as Dusty passed by. It is a credit to the woofer that he always
arrived back at the supermarket in time to greet his mistress with her
shopping. She never noticed (or cared) that her escort was no longer tied up.
As time went by, Annie didn’t bother with
the pretence of tying him up, and he roamed free every Tuesday for one hour.
During that time, the inquisitive dog performed many civic services, some above
and beyond community expectations. For example, he always patrolled the school
toilets, looking for those misfits keen to wag class. Who can forget the day
the canine caught Sammy Stuyvesant and Delia Davidoff smoking? When the
principal appeared on the scene, he discovered them doing more than that. Very
embarrassing!
The day he saved Bernadette Brody’s baby
proved to be another bookmark of bravado. Mum only let go of the pram for an
instant, but it started to roll down Harlequin Hill, picking up speed with
every wheel rotation. The two Rhodes scholars, Rory and Jake, saw what was
happening from the schoolyard but expected Superman to intervene. Yes, they
also believed in the Easter bunny.
On the back of “kiss and go,” man’s best
friend prepared to join Annie in the family vehicle when he observed the pram
careering down the road and went after it.
You may have heard the stories, some of
them embellished. Dusty couldn’t run faster than a speeding bullet, but he did
stretch out and caught up with the baby carriage before it smashed into the
water faucet at the end of the road. The dog couldn’t stop the impetus of the
four-wheeler, but he jumped aboard and sunk his teeth into the swaddling
clothes around the baby’s neck. The fearless one broke free with the child with
seconds to spare and then delivered the crying infant back to her mother. What
a hero!
Annie couldn’t have been prouder of the
sheepdog, but the explanation to her husband didn’t come out right.
“What are you talking about, sweetheart?
Dusty delivered a baby?”
*****
The Four Paw Society existed because of the
number of dog owners in town and out. They represented every political
persuasion, so agreement on anything proved difficult. In matters of respect,
no disagreement existed as to who was their star. However, the suggestion from
Kimberly Carruthers came from left field.
“Ladies, gentlemen, fellow members, I would
like to recommend that we endorse Dusty Rhodes as our candidate in the
forthcoming council election.”
Nice one,
Kimberly.
Mmmm, quite interesting. The incumbent in
their ward, Bruce Pickles, was the mayor but on the nose for all kinds of
reasons. Few people thought he would be able to retain his position, but could
he be beaten by a dog?
Some years ago in Australia, the politician
Bill Hayden declared that “a drover’s dog could lead the Labor Party to
victory.” The Four Paw representative might admit to being more Liberal than
Labor, but there’s a precedent, if you need one. At the Rhodes property, the
working dog only droved one sheep, so he had time on his hands.
The vulnerability of Bruce Pickles needs to
be explained. Three years earlier, the out-of-favour mayor presented as a
shining light, elected in a landslide. At the time, nobody knew him to be a
paedophile with a criminal record for fraud and aggravated assault. To avoid
such issues, one often chooses to relocate, and this is what Bruce and his wife
did. Yes, all hail the forgiving wife, every bit as gullible as he might have
hoped.
The accountant’s job at Sullivan and Sons
appealed, as did the sons, Dan and Tim, earmarked for managerial roles in about
fifteen years. Sullivan’s, the best (and only) furniture store in town, was
expensive, but nobody questioned the quality of their merchandise. The pencil
pusher should have been concealed in the back office, but he harboured this
desire to strut about the premises and bond with the customers. Rather than
describe the fellow, let me quote from My
Fair Lady.
“Oozing charm from every pore, he oiled his
way around the floor.”
Some of these people he recognised from the
Valley Church of Praise, where he held the position of honorary treasurer and
lead vocalist. To them, Bruce wasn’t the sleaze that many people thought, and
he did have a fine tenor voice. The parishioners were more than happy to
support his push at politics and would only find out about his crimes after
election day.
The death of Mrs Pickles came as a shock
and must be described as a sad affair, with most people believing the husband
to be responsible. Of course he was responsible. You should never point a gun
at anybody, even if you only intended to clean it. What was this guy doing with
a gun, you ask?
It would have been nice if the police asked
the same question, but they didn’t. The station chief played golf with the
suspect and declared him to be a rum fellow, so they exonerated him. The pastor
at the Church of Praise also confirmed this characterisation when funds went
missing from the weekly collection. The guy was having a dream run, but would
the fickle finger of fate soon dial M for mayor? The odds were not in his
favour.
You rarely meet people with delusions of
grandeur in a small regional town because country folks have a way of cutting
you down to size. Somehow, Bruce slipped through the cracks. I cite the general
disharmony in chambers when he exchanged his chair for a throne. You can do
that if you’re in the furniture business.
What about the junket to Japan to
investigate the possibility of starting up a Wasabi plantation where the
sewerage treatment plant used to be? Lucinda Quinlan, the token Greenie on the
council, should have been the one to undertake this investigative journey.
You guessed it. Mayor Pickles intervened,
upgraded the only ticket to first class, and frolicked among the apple
blossoms, before eating his way around the various sushi trains in Kyoto and
Tokyo. With little time allocated for due diligence, the sad truth emerged.
Wasabi requires a warm, humid climate to thrive. Some people would describe the
sewage location as all of that, but it was not appropriate for this part of
Victoria. The disappointed traveller retreated to his favourite Onsen and sat
in a bath until the flying kangaroo (Qantas) arrived to return him home.
He would also be in hot water when he
arrived back in chambers to discover a revolt amongst his constituents after
someone leaked details of his previous history. With elections on the horizon,
the mayor became a liability to himself and his prospects. The question on
everybody’s lips— “Who would oppose him?”
The most popular person in town was Basil
Green, proprietor of the fashionable franchise “Murder by Chocolate.” Situated
on top of Harlequin Hill, the shop of enchantment delighted many. If you
survived the climb, a reward seemed appropriate, and Basil and his wife were
never short of customers. Notwithstanding his popularity, Rosemary refused to
allow her husband to be involved in politicking of any kind, as politics
polarised the community and could mean a loss of trade.
When the election flyers for the nominee
were distributed, no one questioned the picture of a dog, front and centre,
because the candidate had been endorsed by the Four Paws Society. Most people
remembered Mr Rhodes but forgot his name was Dave, not Dusty. Dave’s appearance
at the polling booths didn’t lessen the confusion in any way.
So, it came to pass that Dusty was elected,
but you don’t become top dog just because you defeated the former
office-bearer. The reluctant politician became mayor because the other
councillors couldn’t agree on a suitable person for the position; the popular
pooch became the compromise candidate. On entering chambers, the animal made a
beeline for the throne and refused to be moved. Could anyone want a more
defining endorsement?
Looking back at his first hundred days, one
could be impressed by some of the initiatives passed by these servants of the
shire, not the least being their campaign to clean up the streets. “Prevent
Peeing in Public,” a program directed at various loose bladder delinquents in
the town, proved popular, and the councillors named and shamed the most blatant
offenders, such as Mrs Coates’ goats and Georgia Klingner’s cats, who roamed
around the streets as if they owned the place. Getting Dusty to pee by example would
be another thing, putting Kimberly Carruthers and the Four Paw Society under
pressure.
For council meetings scheduled outside of
school hours, the mayor’s carers would be one of the siblings. Otherwise, Annie
would be the lady with the lead. Being a wise head, she could contribute when
difficult decisions were required to be made. One of these challenging
resolutions involved a judgement as to whether the town would celebrate 14
February in the usual manner. The owner of the flower shop thought they should,
and over at Sullivan and Sons, one man looked forward to the special day: the
anniversary of the St. Valentine’s Day Massacre.
Bruce, the wife-killer, only possessed one
gun, which he cleaned regularly. Would he like to line up all the councillors
against the wall and shoot them? Not that he should hold them responsible for
his recent defeat. Insanity is a disease that precludes rational thought, so
anyone would be fair game in his quest for retribution. There would be one
primary target about to experience the full force of his vengeance, but Dusty
was fast asleep on his throne, unaware of his predecessor’s desire for satisfaction.
It would be no consolation for the madman to learn that most people thought the
current councillors were doing well.
“Give a dog a bone,” another council
initiative, found favour with the community, and they responded. So much so
that one of the staff declared:
“There aren’t this many bones in the
graveyard.”
This is when the health people stepped
forward and decided that all bone donations that came to the Town Hall should
be checked for salmonella. The one sent over from Sullivan and Sons should have
been checked for nitro-glycerine. The bloody thing exploded when tossed into
the corner pile behind the statue of Sir Henry Parkes, the Father of Federation
in Australia.
The Town Hall lost the statue, plus two
windows, one wall, and three mock Grecian columns, all covered by insurance.
With no one killed, you might say they dodged a bullet, but nerves were on
edge. At a hastily-called meeting, a resolution was passed to hire two sniffer
dogs from H.M. Customs. The mayor somehow indicated that he would prefer the
recruits to be female.
The investigation at the furniture store
came to nothing, although information came to light that their accountant
started his working career as a chemical engineer, but he never worked in an
abattoir or a cemetery. How would he know about bones?
Cringing in his back office, the creepy
accountant stewed in his reflections of regret. How could he have stuffed up
such a foolproof plan? What a waste of St. Valentine’s Day. Bring on the
Ides of March.
You have to wonder about someone who can
compare Julius Caesar standing tall in the Senate and Dusty the dog standing
small in the Town Hall. The difference was that everyone was out to get Caesar;
one man sought to murder the mayor. That man might prove to be just as brutal
as Brutus.
In Roman times, the Ides of March didn’t
have a daylight-saving component attached to it, so Mr Pickles waited for the
moon to go down. He realised that any self-respecting, knife-wielding assassin,
should sneak up on the target in the dead of night and be wearing Hush-Puppies.
Approaching the Rhodes farm on foot, he sensed the chickens were restless.
Shawn the sheep pranced about nervously, and the ducks headed for the pond.
Then there was the recent addition to the menagerie, Patricia, the python, a young,
inexperienced, but fun-loving reptile who liked to hang out on the porch posts.
The intruder would be rapt to meet her. Or not!
In his kennel on the front verandah, the
designated security operative opened one eye and twitched his nose. The
sensitivity of a dog’s nose is thousands of times more powerful than a human’s,
and Bruce’s body odour gave him away. Not that there seemed to be any urgency
about the pooch’s call to action. Slowly, he found his four feet and rose to
his most formidable height. The commotion came from around the corner of the
return verandah, so he padded his way to the spot where he discovered the
former lord mayor grappling with Patricia, the python.
To be quite frank, Dusty and Patricia
didn’t get on. Before her arrival, he had been the go-to guy for food disposal
and the play-time preference for Chloe and the kids. Admittedly, committee
meetings kept him away from home more often, but one knows when a luminary
loses his lustre. Is this the reason the dog went for the snake instead of the
prowler?
Patricia had never felt pain before, and
those dog bites hurt. The reptile forgot about her game with the stranger and
focused her attention on the canine. She considered him the grumpiest member of
the family, but he rarely resorted to violence. Perhaps if she gave him a hug,
all would be well. In the end, the humans ended the fight, and the trespasser
scarpered.
With all the house lights on, the family
members turned up in their pyjamas and surveyed the scene. Rory discovered the
shiv in the bushes, and Patricia received all the accolades (and some soothing
balm for her wounds). The yard guard just retreated to his kennel, feeling
unloved and unappreciated.
I know what you’re thinking. Bruce, back in
the safety of his abode, would be planning something further for 9/11 or 7
December (Pearl Harbour). This is how his mind worked.
This is not how my mind works. The
intervention of the surly sheepdog could be a precursor to reconciliation
involving the two lord mayors. After all, Dusty saved the guy from the playful
python, a serpent who didn’t know the difference between a cuddle and crushed
vertebrae. The two political animals would meet again at the Harlequin Hill
Hoedown, sponsored by the Valley Church of Praise.
The church was situated in the valley, at
the bottom of the steep incline, just beyond the faucet with the pram wrapped
around it. Halfway up the rise, the organisers erected a stage for the
performers, with interest at an all-time high. The out-of-towners always book
early because accommodation is limited. This year, several celebrated gospel
singers entered the music competition, and Dolly Parton sent a message of
support. In the “Thank God it’s Sunday” category, the terrific tenor would lead
the church choir with their rendition of “Nativity in Nashville.” Dusty would
be one of the judges, along with Keith Suburban and Emmylou Paris.
You can probably see the case for replacing
retribution with bribery or intimidation, Pickles being capable of both. On top
of that, the pastor of this church had Italian friends. Naturally, any
financial corruption would have to be financed from the poor box, but the
treasurer had access to the key.
The good news for Bruce was that the late
Leonard Cohen would not be back with “Hallelujah,” and no Elvis representative
would sing “Amazing Graceland.” While the choir practised for their tilt at the
title, the kids in town readied themselves for their character-defining
event—the billy cart charge down Harlequin Hill, sponsored by Basil Green’s
chocolate shop. The first prize was a mouth-watering assortment of sweets that
any red-blooded adolescent would die for, and might. If comparisons could be
made, I would nominate the chariot race in Spartacus.
At the Rhodes farm, Rory and Jake tried to
insert spikes into the wheels of their vehicle, but Dusty would have none of
it. His persistent whining brought Dave into the shed, who insisted that the
boys fight fair. Their father would never tell them this, but he was impressed
by their competitive spirit.
Poor Dave! Every year, the Hoedown
has-beens set themselves for another beating, and every year, he ran the
gauntlet between Annie and her creations and the lads and their billy carts.
Now, Chloe added to the confusion, having entered Patricia in the “Cuddly
Creatures” competition. Her mother was doing decorative duck eggs and didn’t
have time to attend to her normal responsibilities (e.g., meals, bed-making,
washing, and ironing). Such is life.
These festivals inject much-needed dollars
into the economy of a country town, and Dusty started it all by breaking the
tape at the showgrounds to get the sheepdog trials underway. His relatives
competed, which is why he couldn’t be a judge for those events. Needless to
say, he hung around as a keen observer of the “Best in Show” parade. Mimi, the
sniffer dog from H.M. Customs, looked well-groomed and a beauty among beasts.
The horny hound was a bit of a beast himself.
It wasn’t necessary for security to patrol
the main street, but the controlling canine liked to be sure all was going
well. He would have been happy to see most shops doing brisk business, and the
visitors lined up to meet him, having heard about the mongrel mayor. The dapper
dandy didn’t disappoint. With limited time available, Annie had run up a green
waistcoat for him to wear, with a fancy M embossed on the side of the jacket.
You couldn’t expect the little fella to run
up and down the street all morning, so he picked a spot on the pavement outside
Fat Al’s and curled up for a kip, which didn’t please the seagulls from Lake
Disappointment, there for the French fries.
Lake Disappointment lapped languidly at the
bottom of Harlequin Hill, near the Church of Praise, where baptisms used to
take place at regular intervals. Sadly, the over-enthusiastic pastor drowned
three babies during these ceremonies, and business was lost to the Roman
Catholics, who maintained a depth limit on their baptismal font.
Over the school year, most of the
youngsters in town attended the swimming academy on the lake, and this was
fortuitous. Half the contestants in the billy cart race failed to handle Water
Faucet Corner and plunged into the icy depths. All starters in the event were
obliged to wear life vests.
The qualifying races continued throughout
the afternoon, with a background noise of splashing and splintering as the
choirmaster took his people through their last rehearsal in preparation for
their evening performance. They sounded primed, pitch-perfect, and pleasing to
the ear. The choirmaster exuded confidence, as did the vicar’s wife, having
placed a lobster ($20) on the boys and girls to bring home the bacon. At eight
to one, this might have been an excellent bet but foolish and inadvisable. The
previous Sunday, her husband rebuked those in his congregation who would even
consider gambling.
The Church of Praise choir, scheduled to be
the penultimate act, assembled by the side of the stage, dressed colourfully in
their yellow and red smocks. Megan Proudfoot was in the throes of completing
her performance, playing the Harp of Erin with her feet. In the judge’s box,
Dusty, with his head on Emmylou’s lap, moaned quietly. The lady’s magnified
whisper defied the laws of unobtrusive discretion.
“Danny Boy must be turning over in his
grave.”
Everyone’s a critic, aren’t they? Diverse
opinions give everybody a chance, exemplified by the raucous applause for Megan
from Declan Murphy, who emerged from the pub, the worse for wear. Most of the
church folks arrived to root for Bruce, with the expectation that he would lead
the choir to a magnificent victory. The paedophile would have every opportunity
to redeem himself in the eyes of the community. Many people thought “Nativity
in Nashville” might win over these particular judges.
Those from other faiths were aware that the
Church of Praise promoted a different interpretation of biblical history than
conventional theology. The idea of the baby Jesus being born in Nashville
received little support elsewhere; but, with a decent riff and a melodic
chorus, hope springs eternal. The eight to one offered by the bookmakers was
snapped up by those optimists with a sense of humour.
The optimists proved to be off the mark,
although the COP choristers put on a brave show. New compositions are always up
against it in competitions like this, whereas bastardisation seems to reign.
“How Great Our Art,” performed by first nation rock artists, won the contest,
with the band members commended for being inclusive and non-confrontational. “A
Ride with Me” was also commended, and school bus driver Melanie McGregor didn’t
seem offended by the false praise of Emmylou Paris.
“Very nice, Melanie, but don’t give up your
day job.”
There would be no hard feelings between
Bruce and Dusty. The animal’s outstretched paw was accepted, and the former
mayor acknowledged condolences from Keith and Emmylou. In retrospect, Mr
Suburban may not have been as country as hoped.
Gerry Burke received a Jesuit-inspired education at Xavier College in Melbourne, Australia, where he still lives. Before commencing his long career in advertising, the author was employed by an international mining company, which included a three-year stint in New Guinea. He also dabbled in the horse-racing industry, as an owner and breeder, with some success. Being a former accountant and advertising creative, no one expected Gerry to become a published author, but he embraced this initiative to stave off dementia.
He has since penned six novels, seven volumes of short stories, and two offerings of commentary and opinion relating to politics, entertainment, sport and travel. The PEST pseudonym was subjected to a sea change with the introduction of popular discount detective Paddy Pest to booklovers everywhere.
Most people see the garrulous gumshoe from Down Under as a cross between James Bond and Maxwell Smart, and he has been the protagonist in a number of the author’s humour-laden publications. In recent times, there have been diversions into Science Fiction and absolute fiction, all of which have won enthusiastic acclaim.
Mr. Burke’s credentials have been well established, with twelve of his books featuring as a winner or finalist in a variety of international literary competitions. Three volumes have received multiple citations.
Gerry is single and lives with photographs of his best racehorses.
Website * Facebook * Amazon * Goodreads
Follow the tour HERE for special content and a giveaway!
$20 Amazon
Great author spotlight! All of the books sound great.
ReplyDelete